The Old Republic: Crimson Shadow
by DoseofReality
Summary: A looming evil. A broken hero. A noble Jedi. Darth Revan is aware he needs Bastila Shan for his galactic conquest, but at what personal cost? Will putting his faith in this stubborn woman be worth the price he has to pay? Will she understand the man behind the mask in time to see the truth? AN: This is NOT a new story! Check inside for more details!
1. Changing Hands

So, I realized that this story is bigger than just a delightfully frustrating romance between the Dark Lord and his stubborn little Jedi, and I am trying to adjust accordingly. But fear not!

This is still, at its core, "Temptation." But as I've grown and matured, so has the depth of the story I wish to tell. Thus, this reworking, reposting and renaming of my tale. There will be familiar bits and unfamiliar bits, and I'm sure some of you will be angry I tampered with anything.

Please, have an open mind and understand that I am only trying to give you the best product I can.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own, and am not affiliated in any way, with Bioware, LucasArts, Star Wars, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, or anything remotely resembling the officially licensed products. This is a work of fan fiction born from deep love of a story I felt utterly tied to when I played it. This story is not for profit and does not seek to compete with the original game in any way.

* * *

A tall figure, clad in a black, hooded cape, masked and encased in a suit of reddish-black armor stared out into the vast expanse of darkness before him, waiting. A battle was raging on around him, ships were exploding in balls of brilliantly flaming debris, laser fire was thick, vacillating between green and red, the Sith and the Republic battling for this small stretch of space. He seemed to almost be bored with the battle as it progressed, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, feet spread a little wider than shoulder width for balance as the ship rocked from the explosions that ripped through other craft's hulls and tried vainly to bring the ship he was on down with each hit.

He made a mental note to promote the young commander on his flagship to Vice Admiral – the man was a quick thinker on his feet, a formidable tactician, loyal, and perhaps most of all, had the gift of foresight that seemed to be lacking from so many other commanders. The man always calculated the risks long term, as well as short term, and it had already paid off many a time.

Turning his head slightly, he saw that a group of Jedi had boarded his flagship and were systematically making their way up to the command deck where he was currently standing. Suddenly, the door to the command deck came flying out of the wall, the duracrete explosion ripping the metal to shreds and allowing a contingent of Republic soldiers to flood the room. An intense firefight commenced, and yet still, he did not turn his gaze away from the stars. Two soldiers tried unsuccessfully to sneak up behind him; one met his end by being Force-thrust into the power conduit next to his armored body. The second was lifted off the ground and choked, though not fatally.

He felt the Jedi enter the room – three of them – and finally killed the man with a telepathic squeeze on his throat, his trachea collapsing with a sickening crunch and his neck snapping with an equally loud and visceral crack. If anything, the armored man's boredom only seemed to increase as the Jedi cautiously approached from behind him, the hum of their three lightsabers audible to his ears, even over the chaos that was ensuing outside the metal walls that protected them. He finally turned, calling his lightsaber to his right hand and twirling it once, lazily, and bringing it to a rest with the tip pointing towards the female in the front of the Jedi strike team, his crimson blade parallel to the floor and about shoulder height.

"You cannot win, Revan," the female in the front told him with a falsely confident voice. Revan could feel the fear rolling off of her in tidal waves, and commended her for her bravery to confront him, even though he could tell she knew she would likely die on this command deck. He felt a flicker of an emotion that seemed eerily familiar to empathy and stared hard at the young woman in front of him. She was of medium height, maybe 5'6", and had a slim but athletic build that was infinitely accentuated by the taupe body suit she wore that clung to her every curve. Her hair was a dark brunette and pulled back from her young face by two pigtails, one on either side. Her face itself glistened with sweat, making strands of her dark hair stick to her skin; Revan noticed at once the color of her eyes – a light grey that seemed to draw his eyes to hers, as much as he tried to look away.

"Bastila, we need to hurry," one of the other Jedi told her in a strained voice, obviously not happy with the situation either. Revan smiled beneath his mask – so this was the famous Bastila Shan, Padawan of the Jedi Order and student in the art of Battle Meditation. His smile quickly turned to a frown as he processed this information. Why would the Jedi Order send the one person who had been keeping them from being utterly defeated into battle, and to confront the Dark Lord of the Sith no less? Either they were very desperate, or they knew something he didn't, and Revan had a feeling it was the latter.

Ignoring that new information for the moment, Revan advanced slowly on the trio of Jedi in front of him, a satisfied smirk underneath his mask as they backed up at his pace, never letting him come any closer. He lunged suddenly, cutting down the Jedi to Bastila's left and watching her reaction as her friend's lifeless body dropped heavily to the metal floor with a dull thud. Her face remained impassive for the most part, but he could see the anger simmering beneath her grey orbs at his slaying of her companion. Revan cocked his head at the Jedi behind her and he sailed across the room, his flight abruptly halted by a sharp piece of debris. Bastila's head turned just enough to see the spray of blood and the red-slicked metal protruding from her ally's gut before she quickly turned back to Revan, her grip on her yellow lightsaber tightening in much the same way her stomach was knotting.

Revan watched her body, seeing the tenseness, the shallowness and rapidity of her breathing, the way her nostrils flared ever so slightly, the dilation of her pupils making her grey irises appear smaller. He couldn't suppress a smirk at her reaction, thinking how fear was the sister to arousal, their symptoms so similar. He advanced on her, making his lightsaber strikes light and probing and ensuring that she would be able to block them.

"Do not think me a fool, Revan - you're going to kill me," she growled at him, the intensity in her face making her even more attractive. "Stop mocking me; at least show me enough respect to end my life quickly."

Revan's smirk turned to a grin beneath his mask and he deactivated his lightsaber, clipping it back onto his belt. He spread his arms wide, challenging her silently to hit him, daring her to plunge her yellow lightsaber into his chest. Bastila's thrust was quick and precise, but even so, Revan easily sidestepped her attack. Grabbing her small wrists with one hand, he wrenched the saber from her grip and tossed it aside while his other arm clamped itself around her middle and kept her close enough so that she couldn't kick backwards to hurt him.

"Let me _go_ you son of a–"

An explosion ripped through the command deck, slamming into Revan full force and hurling him and his prisoner to the ground with incredible force. Bastila smacked her head roughly against the metal floor and saw white explode across her field of vision, blackness threatening soon after. Somehow, she managed to stay conscious. Grunting under Revan's heavy weight, she wriggled around until she could push the Sith Lord off of her. He rolled to the side and hit the deck with a dull thump, his body unmoving. Blood formed in a pool underneath him as soon as his back hit the ground. Bastila knelt beside him, panic threatening to override her rational thought. The cool metal of a blaster pressed against her temple saved her having to think at all.

"Is he dead?" a rough, hoarse voice asked. The blaster did not tremble against her head; this man's hold was even.

She swallowed, barely shook her head. "No, but–"

"That's all I asked," he cut her off. "Stay right here, and if he dies, _you_ die, Jedi."

The ship was beginning to break apart and its groans smothered her response. She stared back down at the man beneath her, thinking that she could end everything if she were to just let him die. Revan's death would mean an end to this bloody juggernaut of a civil war. _Are you so sure of that? Malak would step in and continue Revan's offensive. His death is no guarantee of a resolution._ Bastila frowned. It was true...Malak would simply continue the violence that Revan had begun - there would be no lull in the carnage. Revan's death would end up meaningless. A strong wave of compassion suddenly gripped her as she realized that she wouldn't want to die like this – helpless, bleeding out, at someone else's mercy – and she did the only thing she could think of to keep him, and herself, alive: she reached out through the Force and grasped the Dark Lord's feeble and quickly fading life signature, holding on for all she was worth.

The growls and screeches of the disintegrating ship faded from her hearing, and all that her senses perceived was the weak pulse that comprised the remainder of the Dark Lord. His life force was so dim, and hers so bright in comparison that it shocked her for a moment into inaction. A particularly tremulous thrum of his pulse spurred her on. This was not going to be a simple task. His life was fading so rapidly, and she had never attempted anything of this magnitude before.

Perhaps out of a foolish notion, Bastila laid her hands on his armored chest and slid them up to his neck, searching for a way to remove his mask. Her hands were shaking too violently and she quickly gave up, frustrated. She could not remove his mask, but her fingers had found his skin, and she pressed her fingertips against his flesh almost harshly. Bastila needed something of _him_ to feel or see, something more than just this armored shell to attempt to save. She was disoriented, in pain, but determined. Focusing all of her energy into finding his Force signature once more, Bastila clawed through the death from the battle that swamped her senses and reached out with a fierce grasp to yank Revan's life back from the brink. It did not yield to her will easily.

The Dark Lord's existence was on its way out. He was, for all intents and purposes, already dead. His body simply hadn't followed suit; his soul had yet to become one with the Force. The young Jedi tried to fight this inevitability but found she was trapped in a losing battle. He continued to fade. Bastila realized that there was nothing left of him that was truly alive, and thus nothing left for him to hold on to – he needed to be tied to a living thing if he had any hopes of surviving. Without much thought to the consequences, Bastila tightened her hold on Revan's ebbing life and viciously yanked it back from death, twining it with her bright and strongly pulsing life, giving Revan an anchor into the world of the living. Conversely, this meant Bastila was drawn closer to death. Weakened by this and by the sheer effort it had taken to save this man, she felt her fingers slip from his skin and her eyes saw the world in a blurry sway. She had done it, though.

The Jedi did not believe in killing their prisoners, and she fully intended on completing her mission. One Sith soldier was no match for her, even in her weakened state – or so she thought just before her world exploded again into white, consciousness finally eluding her.

The Sith was a smarter man than she had planned for, and had been waiting patiently behind her while she did…some sort of Force magic to the Dark Lord. It absorbed all of her attention, making this 'sneak attack' laughably simple. The moment he perceived the arcane ritual to be over, he smashed the butt of his pistol into the back of her head and watched her slump to the deck.

"Too easy." With a grunt, he lashed the female Jedi to the Dark Lord and dragged them both to the escape pods. Plugging in coordinates, he shot them off first and followed quickly after. Not a moment too soon, as the structural integrity of the ship gave way, the craft disintegrating, lights going dim. The death of Revan's flagship was complete.

* * *

Malak watched with cold, calculating yellow eyes as his master floated unconscious in a kolto tank. _Two weeks, and still he doesn't stir. Never have I seen him this close to death, and at such an inopportune time, _the apprentice thought with annoyance. _Everything would fall apart, were he to perish now. I cannot let him._ Malak's massive hand closed like a vice around a Sith's neck, lifting him to eye level. "For every point his heart rate drops, I will break a bone in your body," he snarled, letting him go and marching out of the medical ward.

He was tempted to pay their Jedi prisoner a visit – he had heard she was beautiful and in possession of a fiery temper – but she was the least of his worries right now. It was barely controlled chaos with Revan's near-demise, something that infuriated Malak. This showed him that his master _wanted_ things to fall apart if he died. Revan _wanted_ him to fail. For just a moment he was sorely tempted to return to medbay and pull Revan's plug. Watch him flatline. It would be so easy…

_No. That would be a foolish and impulsive action, even for you. You need Revan alive a while longer. _

Yes – a short while, and then death would return for the soul it had been cheated of this time around.

* * *

_**(Days later)**_

"You appear perturbed, Mortimer."

The doctor glared at Revan. "You should be dead. I shouldn't be talking to you. And yet here you sit, as if you had just woken up from a damn nap!" he grunted. "Ridiculous…"

The Dark Lord's mouth gained a hint of a smile. "I am alive in large part due to your skill. There is a reason you are my personal physician."

"I don't _want_ to have to save your life like that." The doctor leveled another glare at him. "Not that you'll listen to me, but you should get back in there for at least a few hours." He jerked a thumb towards the kolto tank.

"That won't be necessary. I am capable of healing myself," Revan replied, using the Force to do so as he spoke. "I would, however, take any kolto injections you prescribe."

"If you'll actually do them, then take these," Mortimer grumbled, well aware he was probably talking to himself at this point. Revan had asked about the kolto injections solely so that his doctor wouldn't lose any more of his hair to the encroaching grey it now showed. "One every four to six hours for five days. Don't skip. I know how busy you get."

"My position demands my full attention at all times; you know this. And you know that my visits always brighten your day."

"A joke?" the doctor said incredulously. "Forgive me for not laughing. I forgot you had a sense of humor."

The Sith Lord's expression did not change. "Joking is a luxury I am not normally allowed."

"You sacrifice too much, you know that? I know that this is a burden you think you have to bear, but you can't deny yourself the simple pleasures of life."

Revan gave him a dark smile. "I don't," he answered rather cryptically.

He only shook his head as the Dark Lord of the Sith slid down from the medical table.

Revan donned a black over robe to cover his shirtless torso and grabbed the package of kolto syringes from Mortimer's outstretched hand. "Thank you."

The doctor knew it was sincere. "Good thing you pay me so well," he joked morbidly, earning himself a smirk and a snort in return.

"Indeed." Revan pulled his hood up to obscure his face and exited the medical bay, quickly navigating the passages of the _**Leviathan**_ and reaching his spacious room. He glanced at the virgin bed and mused that it likely wouldn't stay innocent for too long before sprawling his large body across its sheets and falling into a light but restful slumber.

* * *

_**(The next morning)**_

The guard posted outside of the prisoner's room felt a chill crawl up his spine as he saw Darth Revan round the corner, his stride purposeful but...hiding a limp. Straightening as much as he could, the guard waited for Revan to address him. The Dark Lord paused outside the door for a moment, eyeing the guard through his mask.

"Has she caused any trouble?" he asked.

"She broke a guard's nose yesterday when she came out of the kolto treatment because of the explosion, but other than that she hasn't been any trouble, sir."

"Interesting," Revan murmured, his own thoughts taking his attention for a moment. "Open the door."

"Yes sir." The guard turned around, inserted a small, round key-like device into a lock underneath the door panel, turned it twice to the right and once to the left, then entered the code to open the cell door. There had been nothing overlooked in security for this prisoner.

Revan entered quietly, seeing that she was currently asleep, and settled himself at the foot of her bed in a chair to wait. He wasn't forced to pass the time for long. She awoke within fifteen minutes of his entrance. Her stunningly blue-grey eyes slid open slowly, then flew wide as she saw him now standing at the foot of her bed. She sat up and backed away from him slightly, a dangerous expression affixed on her face.

"Don't touch me," she warned, her tone suggesting pain for one who did not heed her words. Already, her Talravinian accent was very apparent.

Revan smiled beneath his mask. This was going to be interesting. "Now Bastila, why would I do that?" he asked, speaking in her presence for the first time.

Bastila was surprised at the almost melodic quality of his voice. Whereas she had expected it to be harsh, guttural and raspy, it was deep, soothingly smooth and deceptively calm. Cool and distant, his voice gave a chilled aloofness to his words.

Narrowing her eyes at his response, she gave him a deservedly suspicious look. "Could it be the possibility that you are the Dark Lord of the Sith, and are obviously lacking in moral restraint? I have yet to learn what you want with me," she snapped.

"While you are most likely correct in your assumption that I am lacking in your type of moral restraint, it should be obvious what I want with you," he told her, amusement tingeing his words.

"If you think that I am going to simply surrender to your will and become your whore, you are sadly mistaken!"

Revan's laugh filtered through his mask and filled the silence; Bastila found the sound to be oddly comforting, but at the same time unnerving - it was a human action coming from an inhuman figure. "I had not planned on it. You would make a terrible whore." His tone switched from detached amusement to seriousness. "I saved you for your Battle Meditation, Bastila. With it, my conquest would be unstoppable and this war could finally end."

_Could end? Good try. _He was obviously trying to appeal to her compassionate side. _Such a generic view of Jedi._

"I am not a spineless puppet, contrary to what you may think. I won't aid and abet your bloodbath to end this suffering you're putting the galaxy through, only so you can oppress the Republic once you've conquered it," she told him coldly.

Revan gazed at her for a little while, contemplating. "That's what you think, is it, that I want to conquer the galaxy for myself? That my ego knows no bounds and that I crave with a burning passion the position of ruler of the entire known universe?"

The Jedi narrowed her eyes fractionally more. "I have no idea what madness exists in your mind, but that seems the most logical conclusion that I and others can reach."

"And you seek not to discover my motives, only to render me incapable of further action?"

Bastila's annoyance flashed across her face for a fraction of a second before she schooled her features into a calmer mask. "I was sent to capture you, nothing more."

"You mean you were sent to kill me," Revan corrected.

"The Jedi do not believe in killing their prisoners," she responded with a slight edge.

The Dark Lord laughed once, harshly. "With what your masters would do to me, it would be the same as killing me, Bastila. They sent you to aid in murder. Destroying the person, the mind, the soul is just as horrific as taking a life. The body remains, but it's merely a shell." He noted the way her brows knitted together, as if she hadn't ever given thought to this course of action before. "You know full well that's what they would do to me. I am far too dangerous to merely keep locked up. They would come together as a single, cohesive unit, and either ravage my mind or remove my connection to the Force."

"You have done the same to others," Bastila pointed out, almost justifying, he noted. Almost.

"I deny nothing. But allow me to point out to you that I gave them the choice. I give everyone the choice. If they do not join me, they know what the result will be. At least I let them control their fate," Revan responded smoothly, emotionless.

"You have no soul to begin with; the masters would be taking away nothing," the Jedi nearly hissed.

"On the contrary, Bastila, I very much possess a soul. It just doesn't fit into your narrow view of the universe. Now, I have digressed from the point of main importance: your Battle Meditation. You are adamant in your position that you will not use it for me?" It was, in truth, a rhetorical question – he knew she would not simply hand over her skills to him.

"Not even under pain of torture or threat of death," she answered firmly.

"Well then, I fear I must be selfish," he replied, pulling out a metal collar and moving towards her on the bed. Bastila shot up to scramble away but he easily held her in place with the Force, slipping the metal ring around her neck and locking it, his gloved fingers deft even in their coverings. "If you won't use it for me, you won't use it for anyone else. That is a Force suppression collar; don't try to take it off, you'll only hurt yourself. I'll be visiting again soon, but I believe you'll be in a different room." Revan stopped at the doorway, his hand hovering over the panel. "Think it over. I'm not asking for anything exorbitant." He opened the door, got halfway out and then turned back. "And keep in mind that it could be much, much worse for you. I had hoped we could start without the torture you mentioned, but if you insist on resisting..."

The young Jedi watched the Sith Lord go with a mixture of feelings. The creeping sensation of cold hands gripping her spine left as he did, but a nagging curiosity quickly took its place. Why was he being civil towards her? He could have killed her already, but he didn't; he even put her in a relatively comfortable cell and had her fed regularly and given a shower once daily. He was the Dark Lord of the Sith – he was evil personified in a man!

Then why did she feel intrigued by him?

The question nagged at Bastila till she couldn't take it anymore and forced herself to think of other things. Unfortunately, the first thing that came to mind was his voice. She hadn't expected him to have a normal voice by any means, but she had a preconceived opinion that it was probably going to be a harsh, undesirable thing for the ears. By no means had she prepared herself for the fact that he was going to have a voice that exuded raw power, masculinity and mystery. It was deeper than most, between a baritone and a bass, with an effortlessness – a silkiness – to it that was almost palpable, but had an aloofness that was disquieting. And it rumbled.

Now she wondered what kind of face could go with a voice like that. If she was going to be realistic, she figured he would be of average attractiveness. Most men with impressive voices lacked the physical aspect of that grandeur. But if she were to allow a modicum of hope to slip into the situation...

She shook her head to stop that thought. He was a Sith – the Dark Lord of the Sith – and there was nothing desirable, pleasing or redeeming about the man, no matter what kind of Jedi he had been beforehand.

* * *

Revan was frustrated as he stabbed a kolto syringe into his arm and injected the healing agent into his body. He was perceptive and skilled at reading people, but trying to read Bastila was much like trying to commit suicide without a weapon – it got him no closer to his goal and only accomplished making him angry. He knew she would be stubborn the moment he walked in the door, but there was something else there underneath that stubbornness that he couldn't place a finger on. He exhaled heavily and tossed the syringe into the waste disposal in the refresher. He needed something to take his mind off of things. Fortunately, that was already taken care of. Revan stepped out of the refresher and glanced at the bed, seeing a woman waiting there. He ignored her for the moment, removing himself of his boots and his shirt and depositing them next to and on a chair, respectively.

He turned to find the woman standing there, a seductive smile curving her lips. He did nothing, simply watched her; she placed her fingertips lightly on his chest and ran them down his torso at an agonizingly slow pace, finally reaching the hem of his pants and hooking her fingers inside the fabric, pulling him closer. Revan's countenance did not twitch. "Bed," he ordered. The woman obeyed, and he followed.

Life's pleasures? Yes, he dabbled in a few.

* * *

_**(A week later)**_

Bastila tried to remove the Force suppression collar for the millionth time, grunting as the electric shock again jolted painfully through her body. Her nerves never got used to the pain and now they were beginning to ache. Giving up for the time being, she sunk into the mattress of her single bed only to jump up again as her cell door whooshed open. Three heavily armed guards entered, one stepping forward and addressing her.

"We have been instructed by Lord Revan to move you from your cell."

Bastila's eyes narrowed warily but she knew it would be foolish to try to resist three armed men without any connection to the Force. She kept her head on a swivel and contemptuously snatched her arms away when the guards attempted to grab her as she was led through the ship to another area of holding cells, these much more menacing in appearance. Was she going to be tortured? Bastila gritted her teeth and prepared herself for the worst, making a vow that she would withstand whatever methods of persuasion were used on her. Tensing and jerking away again as she felt a set of hands on her pushing her into a small cell with no bed she briefly wondered what her ultimate fate would be. Slave? Whore by force? Death? She pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on feeling peace, on making sure that serenity trickled into every part of her being.

_There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion, there is serenity._

Bastila didn't realize how little those words would help her in the coming months. She had no inkling of the multiplicity of ways that Revan would show her how little she believed in that mantra.

For now, however, she was allowed a false illusion of perfect Jedi serenity. She was left completely alone for an entire week – save for the jolt of electricity that surged through her body every time she nodded off – given no food or water, treated as if she didn't exist at all. Her body suffered; she was accustomed to being able to utilize the Force in situations such as this to alleviate the detriments of scarce food and water or lack of sleep, but with the Force suppression collar firmly around her neck there was no way she could fend off the natural effects of deep hunger and sleep deprivation. Her nerves groaned in pulsing, aching agony from the electricity that had repeatedly surged through her system and her head pounded with searing pain. Even moving her eyes to look around elicited a horrible pain that Bastila hadn't realized was possible to feel, like the tiny muscles were being torn in two; this kind of pain without a physical beating was something she was unprepared for.

And this is when she met Saul Karath.

* * *

"She said nothing of importance?"

The Admiral shook his head. "Nothing that we didn't already know. She didn't know the reasoning behind her addition to the Jedi team that made this most recent attempt on your life. All of the scans showed she was telling the truth - she truly possessed no knowledge of why she was sent. Her only objective was to capture you and return you to the Jedi."

Revan frowned behind his mask. "And the shock therapy?"

"Oh, it worked well enough," was his succinct response. "Though, if I may..." Revan nodded and Karath continued, "I do believe that she only answered the questions I asked because she knew that we would already be aware of such things. I could...see it in her eyes. She wasn't broken. She just wanted me to, as she put it, 'quit bloody shocking' her," the Admiral said with a very slight, amused smile.

Revan absorbed this information and stayed silent for a long moment, thinking. "That will be all, Karath," he murmured distractedly. The Admiral bowed and silently exited, leaving the Dark Lord alone with his musings. This Bastila was a strong-willed one then. He had sensed it when he first saw her, but he had entertained the possibility that she would cave under a week's worth of starvation and sleep deprivation. Most people succumbed due to the lack of sleep, but apparently Bastila could withstand even that. That was...mildly impressive. He would hand it to her – she was tough, at the very least. Now, what was the best way to go about getting what he wanted? Karath had echoed his sentiment of her strong will...

Perhaps brute force and painful persuasion wasn't the way to go?

_Hm...Yes...perhaps a display of strength isn't what's needed here. A change in her perspective is in order, I believe. A change in the way she thinks. Jedi despise having their world turned on its head; maybe that will be what breaks her. Trayus Academy would be a quick way to make her submit…No,_ he thought. _I want her to be an example. Show that even the most adamant Jedi can turn to my cause when the truth is revealed to them. Still, she is not my utmost priority. I have a war to fight that demands my attention - I will deal with her when time allows._

Revan issued orders to allow Bastila to be fed and bathed daily, but nothing more. She mattered very little to him; her Battle Meditation was a valuable asset if gained, but he was winning this war despite her skill. He would not be devastated if she never consented to use it for him, though it would mean her indefinite captivity. Revan wouldn't kill a prisoner such as her. She was too valuable a Jedi, too hot of a bargaining item – leverage at the very least, and Revan was keeping all of his options open.

Now, just what to do with her? He shook his head. Now was not the time to worry about such matters. Right now he was most concerned with the fact that Republic ships had been inching ever closer to the Star Forge, and his largest weapon in this war was beginning to look like it might be on the verge of discovery. And that, Revan knew, would mean the end of this campaign he was waging. If the Star Forge was taken or destroyed, he would not have the resources to continue this war for very long. The problem was vested in his options of action: Did he push more ships into the area to more fully defend the Star Forge, and thus run the risk of drawing more Republic attention? Or did he leave things as they were and bank on the fact that since the Star Forge hadn't been discovered in millennia, the likelihood of its discovery now was slim? After all, he doubted the Republic ships would truly venture into the Tempered Wastes unless they had a reason - though this latest foray had been due to a complete debacle of a retreat in which his ships had allowed a few Republic vessels to slip into their jumpstream and follow them in their hyperspace jump. Fools. The commanding officers had been stripped of their positions and then publicly executed.

As he pondered the best course of action - a luxury he rarely had now - a third option occurred to him and it appealed the most, drawing a delightfully, wickedly pleased grin across his face. Yes, he knew the best course of action. Striding purposefully to the bridge, the Dark Lord brought up the navicomputer interface, entered his password and personally put in the code to make the jump to the Star Forge - roughly, of course. Revan was incredibly guarded with the exact location of his weapons factory, and only he and a select few others knew it. Those who were stationed there were inside the massive factory, locked out of any important information the computers held. His fingers swiftly removed the coordinates from the screen as another man approached, one who was most certainly not trusted with the location of the Star Forge: Darth Voren.

"My Lord, if I may have a word with you."

Revan gritted his teeth behind his mask. He despised this man. "What is it, Renstaal?" he snapped impatiently, knowing that calling Voren by his last name irked him.

"My Lord, I must express my displeasure at our lack of retaliation against the most recent Republic attack on our ships. They have made fools of our vessels - are we to let them get away with that?" Voren inquired, his own face obscured by a black-tinted faceplate. "They've painted it all over the holo-net, parading it as a resounding victory."

The Dark Lord of the Sith turned, his figure much more imposing than Voren's. The urge to humiliate the man verbally was strong, but he resisted. That course of action had no real purchase. Revan leaned down shoving his own masked face into Voren's. "You want to chase down some Republic ships and punish them? Fine. I'll let you off your leash. When we come out of hyperspace, I'll let you take lead. Do not disappoint me," the Dark Lord snarled, heavy boots thudding along the metal walkway as he stalked off. Renstaal was in charge of the espionage sector of this ship - he was a sneaky bastard, slippery, one of the few people under his command that made Revan truly a little wary. As such, Revan had a close watch on Voren at all times and never let more than a few days go by without reading up on the man's actions. He would keep an especially close eye on Darth Voren's activities now, since Voren was so frothing at the bit to act. Such a desire to act, to control, to have power in some way usually meant a dissatisfied man on the inside.

Darth Voren watched the Sith Lord leave, his face beneath as blank as the mask that covered it. Revan was giving him an opportunity. That was how Renstaal saw every situation: an opportunity to better his position. He liked to think of his loyalty as very flexible, dictated by what would best benefit him or allow for the most possible advancements. Right now, what benefitted him most was staying behind Revan. Renstaal was ever mindful for the day that situation changed, ready to pounce on the opportunity and further himself once more.

Revan, who had some inkling of these tendencies in Voren, did not publicly acknowledge them at all. The Dark Lord preferred to let those around him who sought to overthrow him, plot against him or simply over-ambitiously advance themselves, fall into traps of their own making. With slight manipulation by him, of course. It was infinitely more satisfying when they failed. Fleetingly he wondered if such a tactic would work best on Bastila before trying to push her out of his mind. She was a woman, and women were not worth his time. They were useful for occasional pleasure and as an emotional barometer, but not much else. He had kept it that way for a long time, and had no intention of changing it soon, regardless of any inner want or need for the warmth and affection of a woman's heart. _'Personal affection is a luxury you can only have after all your enemies are eliminated. Until then, everyone you love is hostage, sapping your courage and corrupting your judgement,'_ Revan quoted in his head. It was what he lived by, and what he figured he would die by, as it didn't seem that his enemies would ever be eliminated. Thus, he could never love. _Hmph. Pity, _he thought absently and then attempted to dismiss such thoughts for the day. Everyone had to make sacrifices in their life. _Why must I do so the most? _a part of him wondered that he could not quell. His mind wouldn't let this go this time. The Dark Lord sighed. _It's the hand you've been dealt by fate, just like everyone else, _he told himself.

_But I can control my fate. I've done so thus far. _

_No...not control. Influence. That's all I can do. Influence._

On that statement, Revan firmly clamped shut on that train of thought. He had two assassinations to complete and one required a personal touch - he could not be distracted. Awakening the droid he had personally built for such missions, Hunter-Killer droid number 47, Revan waited for him to boot up and set the parameters for HK's new target.

"Statement: Assassination protocols activated. New target acquired. Parameters understood. Query: Master, am I to leave now?" the droid asked, his red eyes glowing disturbingly bright in the dim storage room.

"Leave when we drop out of hyperspace. Do not fail me," the Dark Lord replied.

The droid seemed amused. "Incredulous statement: Fail? Master, I do not know the meaning of the word." With barely a whisper HK-47 exited, much to Revan's satisfaction. He was immensely proud of his creation and each successful kill the droid achieved further reinforced Revan's belief that he had created a nearly flawless machine. Of course, he was prepared for the day that HK fell short and a new model would have to be drawn up, but until then only minor improvements as needed would be made to this one.

He turned sharply and headed back to the bridge of the ship to enter the proper docking code for his vessel. All personnel were on edge, able to see through the viewports exactly where they were. Most had never been to the Star Forge before, and all had heard the stories of what happened to people who broke their silence about the location or use of the massive structure. It towered, looming above an unnamed star's surface, a thick, swirling column of pulsing orange energy stretching from the surface to the three-pronged tip of the Star Forge, powering the massive vessel.

"Renstaal!" Revan snapped, waiting until the man came up next to him. "Why haven't you left yet?"

Darth Voren took a bow. "My apologies, my Lord. I...do not know where we are, and we are the only ship in the area...I do now know how I am to organize an attack from here," the man admitted, angry that he was looking the fool in front of Revan.

The Dark Lord smiled beneath his mask, pleased at Voren's unspoken but obviously frustrated acknowledgement of his inferior position. "And you were so frothing at the bit to act," he commented, smirk deepening as he felt Renstaal's anger spike before it was controlled again. "How large is the Republic force you wish to decimate?"

Darth Voren stood up a little straighter. "Several Hammerhead-class cruisers which means squadrons of Aurek fighters, and a few other warships."

Revan raised a brow beneath his mask. "Vague, Renstaal. Sloppy," he reprimanded. "How many ships do you think you will need, and of what kind?"

He could all but taste Voren's growing wicked glee, despite the scolding. "Five Interdictor-class ships filled with our Sith Interceptors should be more than enough to overwhelm them."

The Dark Lord accessed the console in front of him, not needing to read the aurebesh that scrolled across the screen - he had accessed this particular program to link him to the Star Forge's computer systems countless times. And yet...Revan was left with the distinct feeling that this computer link wasn't needed. Somehow, it always seemed that the Star Forge was a nano-second ahead of his entered commands, doing what he was willing in his head before he assigned it on the computer. Now was no exception. Revan barely had to issue any command before the letters on the screen told him that five Interdictor-class ships, bellies filled with Interceptors would now be manufactured. The Dark Lord shut down the console. "You will have your ships in a few hours. Request that the men you wish to man them jump to this location," Revan added, handing him a data pad with a set of coordinates. "I will send the ships there when they have been produced."

_Now get out of my sight._


	2. Are You Strong Enough?

Revan sat motionlessly in his transport, gazing at the wall, his eyes subconsciously taking in all of the stats and information on his HUD.

Ten minutes. That was all he would spare to deal with this spineless dog.

There was a soft lurch as the transport landed and the Dark Lord stood smoothly, cape flowing like liquid obsidian behind him. The Czerka employees quickly scrambled out of the way to let him pass, their fear palpable. Pollard Seario looked up sharply from his desk as his door whooshed open and the heavy thuds of Revan's boots demanded his attention. He swallowed quickly, sitting up straight, stiff.

"L-lord Revan," he stammered. "What can I do for you?"

Pollard blinked as he felt wetness on his face, and he stared at his fingertips in wonder when they came away slick with blood.

"Betraying me is hazardous to your health, Pollard," Revan rumbled. It was the last thing the Czerka man's brain registered before his body slumped forward, head thwacking dully on the desk in front of him. The Dark Lord exited, leaving Pollard's cooling body to be discovered by someone else. Seario's successor was already in place; the only thing in the way was his corpse.

* * *

"No..." Carth Onasi breathed as his eyes read the aurebesh captioning that scrolled across the holo-screen.

_'Republic forces patrolling along the edges of Unknown Space were engaged today by Sith Interdictor-class ships. The attack was described by a survivor as an 'ambush' that caught the Republic forces completely off guard. Ensign Jarvik: 'It was an ambush that there was no way to see coming - the Sith forces appeared out of nowhere, right on top of us. There was nothing we could do.' Jarvik was one of only a few survivors. It is believed that this most recent Sith attack was performed in retaliation to their defeat days ago at the hands of the same Republic ships.'_

Carth gritted his teeth together in anger, his eyes still reading.

_'No statement was issued by the Sith; motives and reasons for this sudden attack cannot be confirmed, though analysts have noted that it does not follow the typical behavior of the Sith thus far in this conflict. A top analyst had this to say: _

_'The type of attack is nothing new. Darth Revan has always used stealth and shock tactics to keep his battles swift, utterly devastating to the Republic, and minimally detrimental to his own forces. It's the fact that it seems to be a retaliatory attack that doesn't mesh with his usual M.O. Revan has never singled out a specific group of Republic ships to destroy out of anger or spite, or out of retribution. His attacks are clinical, by the numbers, performed where they will weaken our military the most - this wasn't a large number of ships. It wasn't a critical patrol. It wasn't a decorated, veteran outfit. There was no real reason for the attack by Revan's own logic - which is why I think he didn't order the attack. I think it was someone else inside the empire. Maybe Malak, maybe someone else, but this did not come from Darth Revan - at least not the Darth Revan we know.'_

_Rumors speculate that the analyst, who asked to remain unnamed, is correct, which raises the question: Who did order the attack? Is there a power struggle among the Sith? It remains to be seen. Those who hope for a power struggle have pointed out that it may prevent Darth Revan from embroiling the galaxy in another war; skeptics of this theory assert that we are already in a war, it just hasn't been openly declared yet.'_

"Dammit!" the soldier cursed, smacking his fist against the table. His anger seethed, thinking of all the ways he was personally connected to this ongoing war. He had served under Revan while the young man was still a Jedi, and Carth had thought him to be the most brilliant tactician he had ever seen. His sagging faith that the Mandalorian Wars would be won had been vigorously renewed when the charismatic Jedi Knight had joined the bloody fray. Revan had changed though, during the course of the war; Carth had watched him become more and more like the enemy they were fighting. Still, it had come as a crushing blow when Revan, the vaunted Jedi Knight who had snatched the Republic from the brink of destruction at the hands of the Mandalorians, had returned as the freshly christened Dark Lord of the Sith. It had seemed incomprehensible to the entire Republic - save for the Jedi, of course. They had an explanation for everything, all the time. Revan had fallen to the dark side during the war, they said. Had succumbed to the desire for power, they said. We told him he'd fall, they said.

Carth snorted. Pretentious asses, the lot of them. So what if they could explain away Revan's betrayal? What about all those who followed him? Karath, for example. That man was his mentor, the epitome of a brave, loyal soldier to Carth, and he had heeded Revan's call. The soldier shook, gripping his glass hard, his knuckles white. _Traitorous bastard,_ he snarled in his head. He sighed and stood from the bar he was at, shaking his head. It didn't matter. He was going to see his wife and son soon, his family whom he had been away from for...so long.

Force, he was looking forward to going home.

* * *

_**(Three days later)**_

Darth Revan's masked face appeared to Malak on the large view screen, impassive and cold as always.

"You requested contact with me, Malak?" Revan's voice asked through the speakers.

"Yes, master. We will be arriving at Telos IV in a day. Your orders?" the apprentice asked, knowing that Revan had specific plans for the planet.

"Admiral Saul Karath is to head the fleet, subordinate only to you. Make sure that is clear to the entire fleet. As for Telos IV…" Revan paused, thinking. "Karath is to demand their surrender. If they do not comply, order him to bomb the planet into glass. Understood? I want the Jedi to know there will be no place they can hide from me in this galaxy, no place they can run to for refuge," the Dark Lord said, a malicious venom in his words. "This war has not yet begun, Malak. Not by my standards. The Jedi have only two choices: join me, or die. If you capture any, keep them alive until I arrive, is that clear? I doubt you will encounter any over Telos, but be prepared. They may reveal a preference for ambush, or, if by some miracle of the Force they grow spines, confront you. Do not disappoint me."

Darth Revan shut off his end of the transmission and Malak was left with a blank screen and clear orders. The apprentice made his way to the bridge of the ship and found Admiral Saul Karath there.

"Lord Malak," Karath said with a small bow as Malak approached. The Admiral was irked that Malak was aboard the _**Leviathan**_. It meant Revan had departed for another ship. The Dark Lord made it a point to keep himself and Malak separated if possible.

"Admiral," Malak growled in reply, making the greeting mutual, though the small bow - a slight to him - made his temper broil. "I have just spoken with Lord Revan."

Karath, almost cutting the apprentice off: "His orders for Telos?"

"You are to demand the planet's surrender. If they refuse, we will bombard them until they are a lifeless and barren rock. Do not commence the bombing until I give the order, clear?" Malak told him, yellow-grey eyes narrowed in anger, reasserting his authority with his last words.

"Affirmative. Standard procedure, Lord Malak. We will have no difficulties."

"Good. Keep an eye out for Republic ambushes. I do not want to be caught by surprise."

_Rest assured you will not be_, Karath's thoughts growled._ I am well aware that if you suffer, those under you suffer._ "Sir," Admiral Karath saluted, turning back to his ship's crew.

Malak left the bridge of the ship to gather a squadron of recon fighters to send out and probe the space around Telos. Both he and Revan knew that the Jedi and Republic were weary of warring; their strikes were becoming increasingly desperate, as evidenced by the most recent attack on Revan's flagship. A sick thrill had flashed through him when word had reached of his master's precarious health. Malak had seen Revan's demise as an opportunity for himself, an opportunity to become the Dark Lord of the Sith. But, as the days dragged on, Malak had found himself vacillating between wishing for his master's death and wanting him to live. The apprentice felt the empire they were building was still too fragile to change hands of leadership. Revan, if Malak knew him at all, had a plan, and the plan would work. Of that, he had very little doubt. He would let Revan lay the groundwork of their empire - _his_ empire one day - and take the mantle for himself when he perceived that Revan was no longer fit to be Dark Lord of the Sith. Malak was no fool. Revan was still the rightful leader of this fledgling empire, still the one who could foster its growth best. It would be some time before he would obtain the power needed to overthrow him, in any case, and Malak would not act until he was ready. He wasn't above using subterfuge to get what he wanted, but now was not the time. He would wait for the right moment, and until then bide his time, gather strength and followers, and exploit what he could.

* * *

Bastila involuntarily flinched as she heard the cell block door slide open. The sound had become synonymous with increased pain and degradation. Bastila felt that she had conducted enough electricity through her body to power a small city for years at this point. Gingerly scooting back to the furthest corner of her cell just to buy even a fraction of a second more of peace, she expected to hear Karath's voice, or see some nameless face - if male, leering, if female, features drawn in contempt. She had never been quite so openly loathed in her lifetime, though she was used to the feeling. Her gift had kept her isolated from her peers, prevented her from having any friends. Training, her masters, and her own thoughts were the only constants in her life. How much she had resented it then, but now...now it looked like paradise.

The footsteps came closer, heavier than normal. She had never heard them before, so this was someone new. She defiantly stiffened her spine and squared her jaw, determined to face whoever was coming her way with no hint of cowardice. Bastila felt her resolve weaken fractionally as a dark, imposing figure materialized outside the energy field of her cell: Darth Revan. She recognized that cold, lifeless mask.

"Come to pay a personal visit? How very thoughtful of you," she snapped irritably, concealing fear. Karath and all the others that had tormented her were underlings, kept on a leash. Revan was not. He was the alpha, the one giving all the orders and following none. He had no restraints imposed upon himself, no penalties if he overstepped his bounds, no threat of punishment if he went too far with her because there _was_ no limit, no line for him, no boundary to overstep - it was whatever he made it to be.

Revan's chuckle seemed hollow to her. "Yes, how very thoughtful - if you consider the growing impatience with your stubborn refusal to talk that brought me here thoughtful." Reaching out past her cell towards something she couldn't see, Bastila felt her mouth flood and her stomach snarl in painful hunger as his gloved hand reappeared holding a plate of steaming, freshly cooked food. "Do you want this?" he asked, amusement fringing his words. Her anger burned at him for finding humor in this sort of childish torture, and she crossed her arms.

"Not in the least. You've probably drugged it and plan on doing horrid things to me once I pass out."

The Dark Lord laughed now, shaking his masked and hooded face after a few moments of apparent mirth. _Such a naïve view of torture._"Bastila, what good are you to me unconscious? It is a simple question: Do you want this?" he prompted again, waiting.

Faltering a little, the Jedi looked at the plate of food. Meat, potatoes, vegetables...tendrils of smoke curling up from the food, the smell so very tempting...Eyes flashing in a hard glare at him, she frowned. "Of course I want food - you've starved me for what, over a week now? But it isn't as if you're going to hand over the plate of food just because I said so." Bastila could practically see his smile behind that mask as he held out the plate of food towards her and deactivated the energy field that blocked her in the cell. Eyes narrowing warily, she inched towards the plate before she realized what she was doing and stopped herself. "What's the catch?"

"Dinner."

Bastila blinked, grunting her words out tetchily. "Yes, you're holding the first one I've seen in more than a week."

"And the only way you'll get it is if you eat it with me. We have things to discuss, you and I," Revan said, waiting impatiently through the silence that followed his words.

"I have nothing to discuss with you," the Jedi returned, her voice frigid.

"Then you'll have nothing to eat. Farewell, Bastila."

She stood quickly, a wave of dizziness sending her to the floor again. "I will eat dinner with you!" she said hurriedly in an effort to make him stop. It worked. "_If_," she added once she was sure he wasn't going anywhere, "all it includes is talking."

"You think you are in a position to negotiate, Bastila?" he returned, his voice devoid of any warmth or life. "You are not. You will starve tonight. I offered you food and the conditions under which you could have it, and you were too slow to act. I suggest you choose differently the next time around." He reactivated the energy shield at the mouth of her cell and, to her horror and fury, dumped the plate of food into a trash receptacle. Trembling, she nearly doubled over as a wash of debilitating pain knotted her middle.

"Rev..an..." she forced out, breath coming in tight, short gasps. Bastila was glaring hatefully at him, but he could tell she was giving in. The odium in her gaze was satisfying. "I will...eat dinner with you. Just give me...food..." She paused for a moment to grit her teeth and forcibly inhale more deeply than she wanted to - _Force_ it hurt to do that. "I'm...no good to you...this weak, and...you know it."

Bastila was right, in a way. She really was no good to him this painfully pathetic - _if _he were seeking to use her in battle. Right now, he was seeking to break her, to render her submissive, thus her weakness was desirable. Revan remembered the plan he had formulated earlier to deal with her but decided that showing her too much mercy would imply weakness of his own. "Very good," he purred. "A prisoner should always know how to barter her worth to her captor." His voice became hard. "However, you have already earned yourself another night without food. I will return tomorrow at this time, and we shall see if your impertinence remains."

Staring in disbelief as he left, no words escaped Bastila's mouth in protest. He truly was going to let her starve another night. The rhythmic, pulsing hum of her cell's energy field was the only sound that reached her ears for a long time.

No footsteps.

No rustle of life.

No breathing but her own.

There were no outward signs of the frothing, boiling fury that the Jedi was unable to control, no hint on her blank expression of the volatile anger within.

"You bastard! You _bloody fucking bastard_!" Bastila screamed, breaking the deafening silence and smashing a closed fist against the wall near her, crying out when a sharp lance of pain knifed through her hand. The injury quelled her overflowing rage and she fell silent, cradling her throbbing appendage, nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, struggling to regain a proper, Jedi-like calm. This was not good. He knew exactly how to shatter her serenity, how to get beneath her skin and set off her short-fused temper. Bastila frowned. Was this how he turned so many Jedi with seeming effortlessness: the ability to discern and manipulate their weaknesses this effectively against them?

She grunted, muttering beneath her breath, "You will not break me so easily, Darth Revan."

Again, she flinched when she heard a door open, wondering if she was going to be subject to more torture now because of her 'impertinence.' The footsteps came closer but stopped short of her cell. Bastila was confused. Scooting to the other end of her cell and dragging her trembling form as close to the energy barrier as she could, she could only make out three bodies - two Sith and what she assumed was another prisoner. The Sith left, her surroundings falling silent again. Who was in the cell next to her? Was it a man? A woman? Another Jedi? A Sith soldier being punished? A traitor? These questions rattled around in her head until her curiosity became too great.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Silence. She sighed, berating herself for even bothering to feel hope. She was in the midst of her enemy; she would find no allies here.

* * *

"This is Admiral Saul Karath, commander of the Sith fleet I have no doubt you've noticed orbiting your planet. Our terms are simple: surrender completely and we will spare you."

"_And if we don't?"_ the response came back over the speakers.

Karath's smile was brief, almost concealed. "Then there won't be a planet left to defend."

There was no hesitance in the given reply. _"If you think that we're going to roll over and surrender to you bastards, you've got another thing coming!"_

Karath looked at his superior officer, Malak, awaiting his orders. Malak stared at the planet below through the bridge's massive viewing windows, eyes lit with a cruel glint, and Karath speculated that if Malak had still retained a mouth it would have been twisted into a malicious grin.

"Wipe this planet's pathetic existence from the face of the galaxy," Malak ordered in his gruff mechanical voice. Karath nodded and raised his right arm, holding it high above his head and all of his men readied themselves, prepping the turboblaster batteries and quad laser cannons for firing.

"Have we obtained a solution?"

The bridge was bustling with life, men sprinting from terminal to terminal, a low cacophony of voices like the building rumble of an ancient train still running on strips of metal rails. A few seconds of this swallowed everything before a voice rose above the rest. "Yes sir!"

"Fire!" the Admiral boomed, dropping his arm like a hammer. The ship shook as the quad laser cannons and turboblasters from the entire fleet began to let loose with volley after volley of withering laser fire, reducing the planet to a mass of rubble and death within minutes.

Malak watched the carnage with a cold air of satisfaction. Revan would be most pleased at this outcome.

* * *

The chasm in his chest cracked further apart as he frantically scrambled through the rubble and saw death all around, heart pounding so loud in his ears, his mouth bone dry from fear.

They were alive. They had to be.

He wouldn't find his home destroyed. He wouldn't join the growing wail of lament that mingled with the snarl of the crumbling rubble, the crackle of the fires, the blare of sirens and barks of rescue and medical teams.

He would find his wife and son alive. They were Onasis.

Onasis _survived_.

Carth pushed aside more broken pieces of buildings, ignoring the hot lance of pain in his hand as he sliced it open on jagged glass. His wife's name pushed its way out of his throat. "Morgana!" It was a plea, desperate, demanding. The strong, comforting silhouette of his home was gone, obliterated, the churning red sky in its place.

"Morgana!" More desperation now. He didn't see her. Where was she? She had to be here!

A limb. A pale leg, jutting out from beneath fallen rubble.

"_Morgana_!"

His hands frantically ripped at the remains of his crumbled home, shredding his fingers. The dread he felt filled the chasm and overflowed, threatening to shut his body down, but he held the devastating pain at bay, wispy, lace-fringed caresses of the threatening agony making him gasp for breath while his world swam and burned in his eyes.

It was her dress. Her hand.

Her wedding band.

"NO! _Morgana_!"

The soldier and husband uncovered his wife's face, finally, and with trembling arms, incoherent murmurings spilling from his lips, he scooped her up and held her close while sobs wracked his body.

"MEDIC! MEDIC!" he screamed again and again, though his subconscious knew it was already too late. He didn't stop, couldn't stop. The word was his one lifeline, the one thing he was clinging to, the last shred of sanity he had left. His last hope. Carth knew he could do nothing for his wife; she was slipping. He saw the glaze that was filming her eyes, beautiful eyes that had smiled and lit up at him so many times, eyes that had mourned with him when he was sad, rejoiced with him when he was glad, patiently endured his faults, praised his successes...

After a while, he forgot who was yelling for the medics. Was it him? He couldn't tell. Was it just an echo in his head? Was it someone else in the chaos? He was numb by the time the medics arrived, tears still falling from his face, slipping from brown eyes that were equally as dull as his deceased wife's, vacant, empty. Carth still clutched her in his arms as if his sheer grip would return life to her body, bring her soul back. He mechanically obeyed what they said, feebly letting go of Morgana's body so the paramedics could work. Standing, Carth aimlessly stumbled through the rubble around his house, calling for his son, Dustil, his search lifeless and without hope.

His wife and son. His entire family. His entire life.

Gone.

The Republic soldier returned to the paramedics only to see them closing his wife's eyes, covering her body with a tarp. She was dead. Carth knew that. She had died in his arms. He had seen the life leave her eyes. Silently, face ashen and drawn, he knelt, removed Morgana's wedding band from her finger, and put it in the breast pocket of his orange military jacket. More rumbles filled the air, signaling more collapsing buildings. But for Carth, the sounds began to fade. The wailing and crying of loved ones mourning loss slipped into nothing, the gutted and collapsing structures had no effect.

_"It has been confirmed that the bombing of Telos IV was carried out by the Sith fleet headed by ex-Republic Admiral Saul Karath, executed by Darth Malak who was operating under direct orders from Darth Revan."_

The radio of a passing rescue worker gurgled out those words and Carth nearly crumbled like one of the precariously standing buildings around him. Karath? Saul Karath, his mentor, was the man who had presided over this destruction and death? The soldier and widower could take no more - Saul's betrayal was tangible now, and responsible for part of his loss. Grief mingled with rage, rage at the people responsible for his pain and loss. Eyes roving around, Carth knew that whatever he had left of his life was worthless now. His home and family were gone, his planet uninhabitable; he had nothing to live for.

Nothing except the black hole inside that was consuming every part of him and demanding he exact vengeance for his murdered family.

* * *

_**(Location: M4-78 Time: 1349 hours)**_

HK's brightly burning visual sensors cut red swathes through the darkness, creating eerie trails of crimson light against the black backdrop of his surroundings. His initial scans had yielded no trace of organics; however, he was 99.98 percent certain this was where his quarry had landed. The 0.02 percent error was likely just statistical noise, his processors had determined. The radiation levels around him were lethal for organics. A possible problem, the assassin droid realized. It would be most frustrating if his mark had succumbed to death already. He could not make such an assumption, though, and as such continued his search.

This was how a planet should be, HK thought – devoid of pathetic meatbags. Originally only colonized by droids, M4-78 had been occupied by the Sith for a very brief period. That occupation had now ended, what with the radiation that was annoyingly sending his sensors into a frenzy. A very interesting and clever place for an organic to go – a planet full of droids. An intelligent move, but not one that had thrown the Hunter-Killer unit off his prey's tracks. Stepping over more lifeless bodies, HK paused at a terminal and took time to sync with it, observing what commands had been and were being issued. The radiation had been purposefully released, and the order given from a terminal located in the Archon I Behavior Core. The order did not seem to come from the Archon itself, ES-05. Curious.

Pinpointing the terminal that had issued the order, HK plotted the shortest course to it and once again picked his way through dead bodies, grip on his blaster rifle sure. If his mark was still on this planet, the droid would find him.

He always did.

* * *

Master Zhar sighed as a Knight approached him. "Any word?"

"No, master," the Knight replied. "Nothing. No chatter at all on the lines. It's...eerily quiet."

The master rubbed his face wearily. "Very well. You may return to your duties." He turned to Master Vandar, defeat hovering in his eyes. "Nothing, Vandar. It's as if she disappeared."

The small alien nodded sagely. "Disappear she has, but that does not mean she is dead, Zhar. I do not believe Revan would so quickly execute such a skilled Padawan as Bastila. Her Battle Meditation would be far too useful for him to ignore."

"And we put her right in his hands," Vrook grunted. "She can't last forever. It's been weeks - if she hasn't already broken, she will soon, and then we will be responsible for our own undoing!"

"You believe Bastila will fall so quickly, Vrook?" Vandar inquired calmly, though the admonishment was obvious.

The human glared. "You know as well as I do, Vandar, that Bastila was far too stubborn, and flirted with the dark side often. She had a double bladed lightsaber, for Force's sake!"

"_And_ she resisted the call when Revan gathered up the Padawans and Knights and Masters for his faction that supported fighting in the Mandalorian War," Zhar pointed out. "She wasn't foolish. Stubborn, a bit prideful with a temper...does that sound familiar, Vrook?"

The Jedi Master's eyes narrowed, but Vandar cut them off. "Infighting will solve nothing!" he snapped. "Cease this pointless spat. We have more important things to worry about - like what to do about the continuing threat Darth Revan poses to our Order. I believe it has become very apparent that Revan takes a special pleasure in taking ours and turning them against us. We are losing numbers rapidly, either to death or defection. What can be done about this?"

There was silence. Dorak spoke for the first time. "Historically speaking, there is nothing to be done." The others looked his way, expecting his extrapolation. "It will not matter what we do. Those who wish to stay will stay, and those who wish to go will go - history has proven that time and time again. Adding incentives will only cheapen our cause."

"Dorak is right, Vandar. If we seek to win loyalty with incentives, it will be a weak loyalty, not the kind we want or need."

Vandar looked at Zhar as he spoke, nodding. "You are both right, my friends. All we can do is remind those who are still with us why they stay and what it is they fight for." He sighed quietly. "Let us pray they find our cause worth dying for."

"Are we simply going to leave Bastila in Revan's hands?" Dorak inquired.

"No, we cannot. We must devote every effort to getting her back before the damage he does is irreparable," the small alien answered. "Yes, Vrook, I know manpower is short, but we must dispatch every available Knight and Padawan to search for her. We cannot simply throw Bastila to the wolves," he added when the balding human began to speak up.

"Where should we begin looking?" Zhar asked.

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Send out teams to attempt to discern her location, station a few on each planetary hub of information - we need to become sieves of information."

"Agreed," Dorak murmured. "I will gather some of my Padawans now and impress upon them the importance of this task."

The Dantooine Council split then, Dorak, Zhar and Vrook going their separate ways. Only Vandar remained in the Council room, silent. The knowledge that he was responsible for putting Bastila in Darth Revan's hands crushed him, and his shoulders sagged under the guilt; the knowledge that they had vastly underestimated Revan's power and skill in the Force shamed him. How blind they had been, believing that five young Jedi could capture a single Sith Lord! How foolish to think that Bastila's Battle Meditation might be able to protect her! He sighed, shaking his head. Bastila had been chosen because she was unfailingly devoted to the Code. Only a Jedi exhibiting that quality could possibly survive an encounter with a powerful Sith mentally unscathed. She was well trained, and decently strong in combat - they had hoped that with a reinforcement of four other more experienced Jedi, she would be able to succeed. It would have been her test of Knighthood; she was given charge of the mission, given a Republic ship with which to capture the Sith Lord. In hindsight, it was all too much for her. Perhaps in a year or so she would have been ready; but this was war. It either killed you or made you stronger.

The small Master exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the floor. It appeared as though Bastila might already be dead to them.

* * *

Pulsing. Always pulsing.

Always pulsing, but no release.

He could gain no purchase here.

Rage filled him for the tiniest of moments before the megalith of a man slammed shut the vault on his emotions, keeping the anger suffocated inside. Malak's eyes betrayed him, however, burning a wolfish mix of yellow and grey as he gazed at the holocron in front of him, triangular object throbbing with a tantalizing glow.

That was all it ever did. That was all this holocron ever fucking did: _tempt_ him. _Mock_ him; mock his inability to open it and access its knowledge. Telling him he was unworthy.

Unworthy. Always unworthy. Never as good as his master.

Never like Revan.

_Revan…_he thought with a growl. _You promised, but you never meant it, did you? Your promise was hollow. I believed you, like a fool – and that's exactly what you've taken me for. _Malak rested a hand on the holocron, no reaction outwardly given to the electricity that flowed through his hand, the device rejecting his touch. _I will be your fool no longer, __**Master**__, _he snarled, the last word dripping with disdain, cape whipping around in response to his sharp turn. The Unknown Regions called to him, beckoning his return. A return to a time where he still knew his master's thoughts and motives more often than he did not, a time when Revan was still his comrade in their fight against all they did not believe in or would not stand for.

_You lost him during the Wars – don't lie to yourself._ Neurons in his brain fired that would have formed a dark smile on his lips had that part of his face still been present. Yes, this was true. Revan had slipped away from him far before their venture into the Unknown Regions, drawing far more within himself than Malak had ever thought possible.

_It was all _**her**_ fault…_

Her. Malak's eyes narrowed. He had watched Revan crumble like the ruined planet of Malachor V after the Mass Shadow Generator because of her, watched him isolate himself and become an insular entity. Ironic, he thought as he snorted, that he didn't even dare _think_ her name for fear of Revan knowing. Speaking it was inconceivable. Likely punishable by torture. Then again…if Malak knew Revan at all, he wouldn't let it show that the woman had ever meant anything to him; that would be showing weakness, and Revan did not show such weakness. The apprentice did have to give his master credit for that.

Malak wondered why he did not use this as leverage against Revan, to dislodge him from his seemingly impenetrable fortress of power. Perhaps because he did not know with any certainty that use of this knowledge would gain him anything. It might weaken Revan, or it might incite him to ensconce himself further in his armor and retaliate viciously.

A memory did not hold much power, in any case, with nothing tangible attached to it – not as a bartering tool.

* * *

Bastila involuntarily held her breath as she saw Revan's figure materialize outside of her cell again. She said nothing; she desperately wanted food, _needed_ food. Her body was beginning to shut down without it. Self-preservation was stronger than her stubborn will. The energy field dissolved and the Dark Lord stepped inside the parameters of her cell.

"Your answer now?" That voice – how many times had she heard it in her head since he had last spoken? How many echoed repetitions ricocheting around her skull…

"Yes," she whispered.

"Yes what?" he demanded.

"Yes, I…will eat…din-ner with you…"

"Excellent. Stand," the Dark Lord ordered.

She stared at him angrily for a few moments before grudgingly obeying and struggling to her feet. Trembling racked her limbs and her balance was unsteady at best, her world swimming with the effort required to become upright.

"Follow me." Revan turned and walked away at a brisk pace – a pace Bastila could never keep up with in her state. She knew this, but willful pride forced her to try anyway, gritting her teeth and groaning as the walking caused her calves to cramp, collapsing with a cry of pain as they seized violently after only a few steps. Bastila looked up to see Revan had not slowed. Tears brimming in her eyes from fury, shame and the agony her body was in, she took to crawling, but even that could not be sustained for very long. She was finally spent as she reached the doorway that exited the cell block. With nothing left in her reserves to push on physically, Bastila collapsed, her cheek hitting the cold metal of the smooth floor, every part of her twitching and cramping painfully. Every breath was agony, comfort not to be found no matter what she attempted.

"I…I can't…" she whispered, tears slipping from her eyes. She was weak. Pathetically _weak_. Bastila had heard stories of horrific Sith tortures, of men and women losing limbs and still fending off their captors in an escape, of endless months of unspeakable electrocutions and ravaging, and she was physically broken by such a simple thing as starvation and 'shock therapy'?

This whisper was as loud as a yell to Revan, a pleased smile curving his lips before vanishing as he halted and turned around. "Yes you can," he spoke in return, not approaching her, but not leaving her any further behind.

The female Jedi was consumed with rage at him. "No I can't!" she yelled, whimpering from the tearing sensation in her calves. The muscles were utterly locked; no matter how she tried to stretch them, they would not release. She was beginning to think they would rip themselves apart if they did not unclench soon.

_Such strong emotions, yet very uncontrolled. Perhaps that is what I should exploit? _"Yes, you can," the Dark Lord answered evenly. She could push further, she simply hadn't found the proper motivation. When she didn't answer, he crossed his arms. "I will leave you here. When you make it out of that door, go left. You will reach an elevator at the end of the hall. Take it to the topmost level." He came back to where she was and knelt down, looking over her. Her clothes were loose, attesting to the weight she had lost. He could see how weak she was, see her twitching; the salty smell of sweat dried on her skin mixed with tears reached his nose. For an errant moment, the smell aroused him. Leaning down further, he murmured, "I thought you were stronger than this, Bastila," and was gone down the hallway, the elevator doors closing on him seconds later.

Thousands of thoughts flooded his mind, all vying to be considered. Was this course of action wise? Was it too much of a risk? Would it be effective at all? Was he a fool to treat her differently than the other Jedi prisoners? The Dark Lord frowned. All of his research on her told him this was the way to approach the situation. Why was he doubting his intel? _You will fail this if you approach it like a tactical maneuver,_ he advised himself. _You must reach __**her**__, whatever makes up her essence. Reach it, conquer it, make it yours._

If this was to succeed, Bastila had to be undyingly loyal to _him_. Nothing else could supersede her devotion to him – not the Jedi Code, not her own beliefs, nothing.

A delicate and dangerous process stood before him, but it was necessary. _She_ was necessary.

The elevator gave a soft _bing_ as it reached its destination, door lifting to reveal a loft area that Revan rarely had time to utilize. It was the only room on the allotted level on this side of the ship, something he had made sure of. When he wanted solitude, he demanded it be true solitude. A huge viewport made up the entire far wall, closed currently. To the left, near the viewport, was a lush leather couch and footrests; to the far right, parallel with the viewport, was a king sized bed. Behind it, along the back wall, was a mini bar area and roughly in the back-middle of the spacious room was a dining table. Back left was filled with bookshelves that housed various tomes, holocrons and datapads, and two comfortable, worn reading chairs. It was somewhat sparsely furnished on purpose. The front middle was directly in the middle of the viewport and where Revan meditated when blessed with the free time to do so. Unclipping his cape and draping it across one of the reading chairs Revan also deposited his mask on the seat of the piece of furniture. Going to the middle of the room, he sat lotus style on the floor and closed his eyes, clearing his mind and meditating on his choices and the paths presented before him.

Bastila, meanwhile, was still collapsed on the floor, Revan's last words to her repeating like a broken holotape over and over in her head, her anger at him building with each run through of the message: You're weak. _'I thought you were stronger than this, Bastila'_ – you're a disappointment. Her eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, burning brightly with indomitable determination.

"Stronger than this? I will show you how strong I am, _Sith_," she spat, gritting her teeth, her will set and immovable. Every nerve ending protested as she moved, pushing herself up onto her elbows, then, slowly, rising on all fours. Bastila was not satisfied to crawl to the Dark Lord of the Sith. If she was going to go to him him, she would meet him standing under her own power and she would walk every damn step of the way. Minutes crawled by as the Jedi inched her way along the wall, lifting one leg, then the other, one step at a time. There was nothing but that single step. Lift, move, set down. Another victory, proving her stronger than Revan assumed her to be. Somehow she had reached the elevator and Bastila didn't dare look back to mark her progress; she feared that if she did, she would collapse. Angrily smacking the panel to take her up to the top level, she gripped the railing and groaned as weight was pushed down on her shoulders, even the laws of the universe conspiring to bring her down to her knees once more. Thrusting a leg against the opposite wall and locking her knee was the only way to stay standing. The weightlessness of slowing velocity let her know she had reached her destination and a feeling of triumph began to swell in Bastila's throat, making it hard to swallow.

"How strong am I now?" she said under her breath with utter satisfaction as the elevator door slid up. Revan was sitting on the floor in front of a breathtaking view of the vast expanse of space, the viewport open and awe-inspiring. His hooded head turned slightly when she took a violently trembling step inside and summoned all her strength to stand under her own power for as long as it took for him to witness her accomplishment.

Revan was mildly surprised she had managed to make it up to his loft so quickly, and legitimately pleased to see her standing without aid outside the elevator once he turned and laid eyes on her. "I told you you were capable, you simply had not found the proper motivation," he spoke as he ordered droids to bring dinner for two up to his loft. "How does it feel?"

Bastila's eyes were narrowed slits of blue-grey. "Satisfying beyond measure to prove your assumption of me incorrect," she answered, voice shaking, but the truth in her words was unmistakable.

From behind his hood, Revan grinned. "Excellent."


	3. Stay Out of My Head

His voice sounded…different. Louder. Clearer. But Bastila could see nothing underneath his hood; the lighting was too dim to make out anything but a rough sketch of his person.

"Why?" she demanded. What was the point of the test she had just ostensibly passed?

His figure shifted. "Without pain, life is not worth living," he told her. "Had I given you the dinner you agreed to eat with me, it would not have tasted as satisfying as this dinner you are about to eat. You have pushed yourself to your limits to acquire it. Pain makes every victory sweeter." The Dark Lord pulled out her chair and moved to his across the table. "The last step of your journey: Can you make it to the chair?"

Bastila longed to be able to walk to it under her own power, but she did not think her body could do what she was asking of it. She was barely standing as it was and her legs were beginning to give out. No matter – placing a single hand on the back wall, she inched her way along, face set, hard and beautiful with determination. Revan was taken by her for these few moments, surprised at the stirring he felt sluggishly move in his chest upon watching her fight to…to do what? Make him proud? Prove him wrong? The thought pleased him that even if her motive was to prove him wrong, it was still, at its base, driven by the desire to make him proud of her. To show she was capable of more than he said she was. His eyes did not leave her form until she had sunk triumphantly into the chair pulled out for her. Pride electrified her irises, a stormy blue to his perception. This perturbed him deeply though he could not pinpoint why.

"I have accomplished every task you set before me," she nearly growled.

"That you have, and a most impressive display you put on, Bastila," he replied, coolly complimenting her. "Your reward is dinner, as I promised." He motioned behind her and she turned her head to see droids bringing a feast to their table. Her stomach snarled in hunger as the smell of the food reached her but Bastila would be damned if she let him see how famished she truly was. With grace and self-restraint, though with trembling hands, she picked out the food she wanted and ate slowly. The young woman was no fool; eating quickly after being starved was tempting, but unwise.

Revan did not endeavor to make conversation with her while they ate. Instead, they both watched each other, he with aloof curiosity and she with a good deal of suspicion. Bastila saw him lift his fork to the darkness in his hood time and time again – his mask must have been elsewhere. What did his face look like? Was he scarred, marred beyond recognition? Did he even still retain the resemblance of a man at this point, mired in the dark side as he was? While still with the Jedi, Bastila had searched for images of him as a Jedi, but strangely had found none. It was as if he existed in name only in any and all archives she scoured. Often she had wondered if that was his doing, and if so, why? What was it about his face that he wanted erased from history? His name would live on forever, but that he did not seem to mind.

"What are you thinking?" His question startled her in a few ways.

Silence permeated the air between them for a fullness of time that did not seem to want to be measured. "I do not understand you," Bastila replied quietly, still eating, savoring every bite.

"You are not alone in your confusion. Then again, your kind has never understood me; I am not surprised I am a mystery to you," the Dark Lord returned.

"My kind?"

There was an obvious smirk behind his words. "Females, and Jedi."

"Prefer men?" the Jedi retorted. Immature? Yes. Satisfying? Most certainly.

A snort came from the darkness in his hood. "Would it please you if my sexual preference were that of a homosexual?"

"It would explain why you apparently refuse to turn me into one of your whores. Not that I voice that as a complaint in any sense of the word," Bastila said.

"Perhaps I find you physically unattractive."

The answer stung more deeply than the Jedi had anticipated and she lowered her eyes self-consciously, eating once more in silence. His opinion did not matter, she told herself, but Bastila could not deny her…sensitive nature. She never had been able to and it had often caused her trouble with the Jedi.

Revan, on the other hand, was amused. This was a stubborn, prideful, fiery woman. She was attempting to push his buttons, even when in a position of absolutely no power. Insinuating that he was made the bitch by other men... Impressive. Brave little thing, she.

"But we are not here to discuss me – we are here because I wish to discuss _you_," Revan continued. "You and your remar –"

"No."

The Dark Lord blinked and was dumb for a moment. Had she just interrupted him? "No?" he repeated, surprise coloring his word a query.

"You want my Battle Meditation. No," Bastila repeated. She was not stupid; she knew that was why she was here.

Ah. She was preempting him.

Unacceptable.

With a subtle squeeze of his first two fingers towards his thumb, the Sith Lord shut off Bastila's air, her fork clattering to the table as she dropped it and clutched at her throat instinctively. It was a reaction – he felt little real panic within her; she was likely also smart enough to know he was not choking to kill. "Don't _ever_ interrupt me," he growled, no room for disobedience in his tone. His anger was cold, calculating. Revan watched as Bastila's eyes grew wider, then narrowed, veins standing out on her forehead, face turning a particular shade of red. Finally, he relaxed his fingers and observed with utter impassivity as Bastila attempted to inhale but choked on the food she had been in the middle of swallowing when he stopped her from breathing. Her coughing was irritating to him, but he did nothing to help her – she was coughing and thus air was able to move in and out of her airway. Heimliching her would only do harm. The glare he received when she finally regained normal breathing was scathing, and he smirked. Those powerful emotions of hers would be useful. "Manners, Miss Shan, manners. They are important."

Revan almost laughed at the self-control he knew it took for her not to lunge across the table and try to stab him with the knife she was gripping, knuckles white. However, he noted she calmed placidly a few seconds later and discerned she was employing a typical Jedi maneuver of serenity in the face of everything.

_Predictable and boring. Come now, Bastila. Show me something new._

"As I was saying. I wish to talk about you and your remarkable gift. You have used it against me a number of times in this war. The battles in which you have been involved, my forces have lost." Revan shifted. "However, you have not seen fit to use it against me directly – unless my sources are incorrect. Why is that?"

Bastila remained irately silent.

"Is it because you are afraid?" No response. "Is it because the Masters do not think you capable of defeating me, even with your gift?"

Her eyes flashed as her mouth snapped open. "I am perfectly capable of –!"

The Dark Lord had expected a full outburst – obviously his last comment had gouged beneath her skin – but no other words came forth from Bastila's lips. "No answer then, I see." He sipped his drink, nursing it while he thought. "How does it work?"

Bastila looked up from her plate. "How does _what_ work? I am not telepathic."

He frowned in the shadows of his cowl. "Your Battle Meditation. How does it work?"

The Jedi glared at him suspiciously, the silence growing between them. "You honestly believe I would tell you?"

Revan steeped his ungloved fingers. "You may either tell me, or I can find out for myself. You will not enjoy it if I must."

"If you think you can violate my mind –"

"I do not _think_, Bastila. I _know_. I am giving you an option: tell me of your own free will. Choose to reject my offer…"

"I do not intend to make anything easy for you," she snapped. "I will suffer what I must to accomplish that goal."

He smirked; she was certainly stubborn, just as all of her files had said. Bastila did not disappoint. Closing his eyes, Revan reached out to her mind and encountered a thick wall. She knew how to defend her mind…Curious that a Padawan would be in possession of such a skill.

_Impressive…_

He heard Bastila gasp – she felt the enemy at her gates. The strength of his presence sliding against her mind, pressing, suffocating…it frightened her. It felt raw but reined in; Revan had control of the immense power he possessed.

And all of that power was about to forcibly enter her mind.

For a brief stutter of her heart, Bastila regretted refusing the easy way out – then, there was nothing left to think about as her consciousness was roughly invaded by Revan's, pushing her to the far corners of her own psyche. It felt as if she was on the verge of blacking out and Bastila began to panic. The pale, slender fingers of one hand clutched at the brunette crown of hair atop her head while those of the other grasped the edge of the table, eyes screwed shut as she desperately tried to regain the lost territory of her mind.

As soon as Revan entered, he felt a disturbing sense of familiarity amongst Bastila's thoughts. Ignoring it for the time being, he shoved facets of her mind aside until he discovered the information he was looking for.

"_So it takes immense concentration, does it?"_ The question was from his own mind, posed to her consciousness.

"_Yes, an exhausting amount,"_ Bastila's mind returned obediently, like a trained animal.

"_Does it operate off emotion?" _

"_Emotion is not required, but may improve the effectiveness exponentially for the duration of meditation or the emotion felt."_

"_On what scale can this ability be used?" _Revan asked now.

"_The grandest scale that has been attempted is a single battle. Larger scenarios are believed to be possible, but this belief has not been verified."_

The Dark Lord much preferred conversing with 'Bastila' this way. The mind was a supercomputer in its own right, and was giving him factual answers much as any computer would. And it wasn't stubborn. The dissociative identity her mind seemed to have from her, what made Bastila herself, was interesting to him. Had he the time, Revan would have probed this discovery further. _"So it could be surmised this Battle Meditation could influence an entire war…before it ever begins, given the right information?" _

There was silence.

"_Was my inquiry unclear?" _

"_No. She does not possess this knowledge in her conscious mind."_

He frowned. Deeper, then. Working his way through the layers, like working through a maze of never ending passages, the Sith Lord kept going until a sense of revelation permeating her brain stopped him. He posed his question again. _"Can it be surmised that Battle Meditation could influence an entire war before it begins, if the subject in question with the talent is given the correct information?" _

A heavy silence, sluggish almost. When the answer finally came, it was nothing like he expected. Multiple voices seemed to speak at once, three of them that he could make out. One was incredibly slow, deep in tone, like it was speaking from the bowels of sloth itself; another sounded like Bastila, but a more aged, mature version of herself. The remaining voice was so deep and garbled it could only add a sense of cadence and tone as the answer finally came, rising up before the words like an animal rousing from sleep: "_hrlnrrgg…yes – yyeeessss…"_

The feeling of someone small pushing against him, like a child trying to move his leg by shoving it – an effort in futility – caught his attention. Bastila was fighting back.

How amusing.

Having found the information he sought the Dark Lord removed himself from her mind and allowed her control of it once more. "If you were more cooperative these things would not have to happen, Bastila," he rumbled, waiting patiently for the time it took until she could respond.

"Yes, it would be much better were I to simply give in to your every whim," she snapped, eyes glaring white-hot daggers at him. Her mind felt groggy and violated now released from his probing, like it was still submerged in water – thick, and slow, as if she had been drugged and raped but retained no memory of the event; only the sensations of what had transpired remained.

"It would, actually," he said in a tone he might have used were he disinterestedly observing dirt caught beneath his nails.

"That is a shame, then, because I refuse."

Revan smiled tightly behind the shadow of his hood, expecting this answer. "Yes, I figured as much. That is just as well – your cell has been vacant for too long. Dinner is over."

The Jedi prisoner was escorted back to her cell by two of his soldiers, Revan not watching them leave. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to care. Bastila's mental defenses had been impressive. Pathetic, compared to what they should be, but impressive when compared to what he had expected of her. Building up those defenses would be a valuable investment of his time for the future. What remained was how to go about achieving his goal: obviously, like a blunt object, or subtly, like a hidden trigger in a certain word or phrase? Her mind would eventually take to either method, but what would _Bastila_ accept most readily? The Sith Lord decided he would sleep on it. He had not seen his bed in three days and mistakes born of exhaustion were not luxuries he was allowed to partake in.

* * *

Nothing. Another drink, the pain buried a little deeper and not a single damn step closer to what he wanted. Dustil was nowhere to be found. He was not among the corpses on Telos, not among the survivors, not anywhere. The idea he had been flirting with seemed more alluring every day he went without hearing anything about his son, but something in Carth rebelled at the thought of donning a Sith uniform, no matter the reason.

The fact that the Sith Empire was a massive pool of information was not lost on him. The temptation of knowledge was strong.

Another filled glass, amber-tinting and dulling the world.

Knowledge. That wasn't a bad thing to desire, was it?

No harm ever came from wanting to _know_…

* * *

Revan awoke drenched in a cold sweat from his feverish dreams and in a viciously stormy mood. Never had the warm breeze of Dantooine been so hellish, the endless blue sky so ready to swallow him whole. The lightsaber hilt in his hand carried a foreign feeling, awkwardly heavy though it seemed to be his own blade's metal cylinder. Revan felt he was reliving a memory, recalling an intense sensory experience – yet one he had never been a part of. The lightsaber hilt…it was not his. He knew the feeling of his weapon with utmost certainty. The wind had never smelled like that on Dantooine. Those aromatic plants had not been in the Enclave when he resided there.

What visions were these, then?

They felt so very real…but he was resolute in his belief these things had never happened to him. That left an inquiry that troubled him: If they weren't his memories, whose were they? A suspicious nagging wriggled at the base of his skull like a maggot burrowing in a corpse. That answer wasn't much of one at all – it only presented another question: How? Growling, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the carpet beneath. He had expected cold floor. Why? He knew his room was carpeted. Shaking his head harshly, the Dark Lord put on a robe, obscured his face by drawing up the cowl and wandered down the hall outside his room, guided by something within.

His feet halted, and he looked at where he was for the first time. He recognized this room. A soft, pulsing red glow unfurled from the opening doorway, accompanied by a matching, rhythmic hum. Revan felt tugged inside, a pulling in his gut like a hook had been threaded through his navel.

'_Step forward.'_

A subtle command. It knew he was here. There was no reason to hesitate. Hesitation was weakness. The Dark Lord of the Sith looked around, eyes roving the room filled with holocrons, a miniature library of them. Two people had access to this room. The other had been here not long ago, he noticed, Malak's presence lingering on a few of the information-bearing devices. Most notably, the one he was here for.

_Amusing_, he thought. _Malak has yet to impress the spirit within. _

Hand extended, he drew the triangle shaped device to the circular pedestal in the middle of the room with the Force, lightly touching his fingertips to the rough surface. Splitting at the seams of the triangle faces, the holocron opened to reveal a holographic projection of a warrior the likes of which no longer existed in the known Republic.

"Greetings, Revan. It has been some time." Its voice was deep, guttural. Power existed there even though this was merely a fraction of a spirit.

"That it has," Revan murmured in reply.

"Why have you returned?"

"I…am not certain. Strange dreams have driven me here. Dreams that seem to be another's memories."

The hologram crossed his arms and looked thoughtful. "This is not unusual. Why do these dreams burden you?"

"Not unusual? I have never dreamt another's dreams or memories! Not without provocation, or –" Revan snapped back with grunt, stopping his thought train aloud. The implications of what he had just realized unsettled him.

"What difference does that make? Use it to your advantage," the hologram replied.

His mouth opened and almost immediately shut. Could he truly use such mundane things as memories or dreams for his gain? Revan supposed he could. Another subject had his interest now, however. "You refuse to open for my apprentice. Why is that?"

"He is unworthy."

"What deems him unworthy?"

The hologram snorted. "He is an insecure, sniveling child. His mind shrieks like said child having a temper tantrum every time I refuse him entrance. I have nothing to teach him."

Revan could not deny some amusement with this assessment of his apprentice. Thoughts running introspective, he spoke again: "What makes me worthy?"

The figure in the hologram seemed to be waiting for such an inquiry and his shoulders relaxed, a pleased, though subtle grin curving his particle-formed lips. "The fact that you need to ask."

"His sin is pride, then. It always was…" he murmured quietly.

"Something else weighs heavily on your mind," the semi-transparent image observed.

The Sith Lord looked up, mildly curious at this statement.

"Your aura churns slowly with internal struggle. Your mind is hard at work, but going nowhere. It is not difficult to sense."

"That does not disturb me. What troubles me is that my thoughts are so laid bare to you."

"They are not. Were they bare, I would know exactly how to manipulate you to my liking. As it is, I cannot. Thus, I am forced to treat you warily as an equal."

Revan smirked. "That irritates you. You are not accustomed to dealing with equals."

"Not of other races, no. You are a rare, worthy opponent."

Their gazes locked for a short while, searching the other but finding no footholds.

"You are in my possession," the Sith Lord said slowly, deliberately. The figure from the holocron tensed and glared, hands curling into fists. "I own you. Do not forget that. Would that I desired it, your spiritual ossuary would be dust, and you destroyed along with it."

"You would lose a valuable resource," the spirit replied, voice shaking with barely controlled rage.

"See that it remains that way," Revan answered shortly, shutting the hologram and putting it back where it rested in the library. Drawing up his hood and uneasily walking the corridors of his ship, he found his steps lead to the holding cells where Bastila yet remained. Sounds from inside reached his acute hearing and he frowned. Female…and male…sounds of a scuffle.

Surely no one under his command would be so foolish…?

Revan had learned long ago not to bank on hope or faith of that kind. Strides eating up a meter or more with every silent step, a barely controlled rage filmed his vision red at the sight of what was before him.

Bastila was bleeding from a cut on her cheek, the bruise already purpling her face. Scrambled back in a corner, the look of a cornered predator in her eyes, she was barely holding off the two Sith soldiers who were laughing at her feeble attempts to protect herself and her virtue.

"Come on, pretty Jedi. Just hush and relax and this won't hurt…too bad," one crooned.

"She won't be able to make noise with what I'll put in her mouth," the other added, taking a step forward.

_**SNAP!**_

A sound like the rapport of a sniper rifle echoed deafeningly in the small space, quickly drowned out by the soldier's surprised scream of pain and the thud of his armored body hitting the floor. Revan could feel Bastila's eyes on him now, finally aware of his silent, black-robed presence at the mouth of the room. The second soldier whirled and his face paled so quickly the Dark Lord thought for a nanosecond that he had suffered a massive internal bleed from terror.

"M-m-my lord!" he stammered, falling to a knee, right hand smashed to his chest in a respectful, very humble salute.

"Rise," Revan stated, voice almost warm, very close to amused.

The soldier, hearing this, looked hopeful, and slowly got back on his feet. A wet crunch followed seconds later and the man cried out, stumbling back against the wall and clutching at his right thigh. Another loud snap like before and he screamed, falling to the ground, pathetically reaching for his left shin. It slowly sank in that the amusement almost palpable in the Sith Lord's tone was pleasure at the prospect of watching him writhe, entertainment at the thought of stringing him along for the briefest of moments before literally cutting his legs out from under him. All hope was snuffed from the Sith's eyes as he quietly moaned on the floor like his partner, looking up, terrified, at Revan.

"What should their punishment be, Bastila?" he asked, seeing her eyes leave the suffering men slowly and fix on his form again. "The pain they are feeling is merely physical, and will go away in time. They sought to afflict a more damaging kind on you."

"Bastards…" her Talravinian voice cut from the corner, shaking, but backed with a powerful loathing. She was surprised when two soldiers appeared in the doorway. When had he…?

"To the cells with them. They will be treated like traitors."

The Sith nodded and hauled the two injured men off.

"They deserve whatever punishment they receive," Bastila grunted, her temper taking hold now, the affront to her dignity and the rage of being helpless to defend herself finally coming through.

"They will suffer under Karath's hand for as long as I see fit."

There was a sense of death in his words, and it occurred to Bastila that when they ceased to suffer under Karath…they would cease to suffer altogether. They would cease to exist. Like traitors, they would be tortured, then executed. "Their crime wasn't worthy of death," she said. "No crime is worthy of death."

"Is it?" he snapped, anger flooding his words. "Is no crime truly worthy of death? A serial killer who rapes and guts his victims alive, does he not deserve death? A man who takes children, tortures them and kills them, does he not deserve death?" Why was she defending men who would have raped her and left her broken?

"A Jedi who defied his masters, went to war and returned a Sith Lord who threw the galaxy into a civil war, does he not deserve death?" Bastila returned, anger still in her eyes.

A hollow laugh issued forth from his hood. "I deserve death."

The statement seemed to take the fire out of her. Shock was evident on her face.

"Did you believe I thought myself above judgement?"

Bastila recovered her composure well. "You act as such," she said stiffly.

"You think I act how I wish because there is no one to punish me." Revan laughed again. "You are very naïve, Bastila. It is almost refreshing."

A short silence. She gingerly wiped at the leaking cut on her face and the Dark Lord took a small step forward, hand outstretched. Bastila shied away from his touch, drawing back, but she had nowhere to go – she was already in the corner. His hand was ungloved; the Jedi was not surprised by the pale color of the skin of his hand. The touch on her face was gentle, light, and from his rough fingertips she felt the Force tingle across her skin, knitting together the split flesh. Revan's hand withdrew, disappearing again within his robes when heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, leaving Bastila little time to wonder at his action before her attention was demanded by this newcomer.

One of the soldiers had returned, and bowed at the waist. "My lord, the perpetrators are in their cells. They have been given medications to keep them stable, nothing more. Is there anything else you require?"

Bastila's attention perked much like a kath hound's ears when hearing a curious noise; she seemed to find something familiar about this man.

"Sante," the Dark Lord spoke, remembering then, "you captured Bastila for me, did you not? When I was injured on my ship, it was you who brought her in, yes?"

Recognition bloomed in Bastila's eyes then, as well as deep annoyance, and he watched her lightly touch the back of her head. Sante had knocked her out and she was still disgruntled over that. This amused Revan.

"Yes, sir," the soldier answered succinctly. Revan was quiet for a while, thinking. Sante took this moment to speak up. "My lord, if I may."

"Speak frankly, Sante. Formality never suited you well."

"Yes, sir. Perhaps…it would be wise to move the Jedi to a more secure location. One that has more restricted access. Word has spread amongst the men of her beauty…and I fear more will try their hand over time. Men quickly forget punishment if they are not subject to it – in the face of a potentially larger reward," the older, wise soldier said.

"Men _are_ weak in the face of a woman," he muttered, tone indefinable. "Very well. She is to be moved, then."

"And just where am I to be moved? Or have you forgotten I'm here?" Bastila interjected.

"Your opinion on the matter is irrelevant. Why would we consult you, present or not?" Revan snapped back, earning a cold glare from his prisoner. He returned attention to Sante. "She needs to be around someone trustworthy…"

"Yes, sir. There are a few men I could suggest –"

"You."

There was obvious surprise behind the mask the Sith soldier was wearing. "Me, sir?"

"Yes. You."

Sante shifted, stood up a little straighter and made a respectful inclination of his head. "Yes, Lord Revan. Where will she be moved to?"

Silence. The soldier did not dare interrupt. "There is an empty room next to mine. This is reason enough to fill it, for now. You will be stationed outside her door. I can keep an eye on her otherwise." He paused. "The names of the men you would recommend – give them to me. You are not capable of watching her all hours of the day, and I am not around regularly enough to pick up the slack."

"Yes, sir."

"Sante," Revan stated quietly, too slowly.

"Yes, sir?" The question was hesitant.

"If any of these men fail me, I will hold you responsible."

"I understand, sir," the soldier replied, form stiff. He did not want to suffer that punishment. Not when he knew what was going to happen to the men he had just helped carry off. "Shall I have the furniture and amenities removed, my lord?"

This gave Revan pause. Should he remove those things? Bastila had shown remarkable resilience when faced with starvation and pain. It had been over a month in this vein, and the current approach had netted him no progress towards his final goal. He was patient when it was required of him, but his patience did not extend this far. The Dark Lord needed results from Bastila, one way or another. This limbo of nothing was a waste of his time. "No, leave everything. Move her now." The situation satisfactory, he vacated the room.

Bastila's glare shifted to Sante when Revan was gone.

"Don't look at me like that, Princess," he grunted, offering her a gloved hand.

"You will _not_ call me that," she snapped, ignoring his aid and trying to stand on her own.

"Don't get your chastity belt all in a twist," he retorted, chuckling.

"I'm here because of you. You expect me to enjoy your company?"

"You're here because your damn Jedi masters were dumb enough to send you to try to capture Lord Revan. If they had more sense than a herd of Banthas with their heads up their asses, then you wouldn't be anywhere near here." He crossed his arms. "You've got a lot of fire in you, and there's something to be said for that, but that fire directed the wrong way is only gonna get you burned, little Jedi." Sante was beginning to think the glare on her face was her natural expression – either that or the old wives' tales of holding an expression so long your face got stuck that way were true.

On her feet, Bastila sized this man up. He was not overly large, but he wasn't small either. She guessed his height at about six feet, and he was a solid looking being. What intrigued her most was that Revan obviously trusted him.

"Just because Revan trusts you to keep me 'safe' doesn't mean I do," she muttered, realizing how much her body hurt. It was not the same pain as before, the needle-sharp pinpricks of lava at every nerve ending due to utter weakness from starvation; this was the familiar pain of overexertion, of sore muscles. Why she was sore was beyond her – she had done nothing physically taxing in the recent past. Bastila was unaware that Revan's violation of her mind was the cause. The mental soreness she was unable to feel was manifesting as physical pain. Her brain had to express itself somehow.

"Can you walk?" Sante asked, ignoring her sullen behavior.

Bastila frowned. "How far away is this room?"

"Across the ship."

"Perhaps. I should have enough strength." She snorted. "And if I do not, will you simply leave me there until I can crawl my way to our destination?"

The soldier seemed unamused. "No. I'll carry you. My job is to get you to that room and guard you, not test your resolve or current physical limits. I've never had a flair for that sort of thing anyway. C'mon. The sooner I get you to this room, the happier _you'll_ be and the less stressed _I'll_ be. Let's go. Double time."

As protocol demanded, Sante escorted the prisoner while in firm grip of his blaster rifle, though he doubted Bastila could have given him a decent bruise at the moment. The trip was uneventful. She did possess enough energy to reach the room, but Sante noticed she was breathing a little harder when they halted. Revan needed to let the girl exercise and get some good food in her, otherwise she'd start to shrivel away – and that wasn't a use to anyone. He selected the comm channel that reached Revan directly while he unlocked the door and escorted Bastila inside. A soft beeping filtered into his ears until the Dark Lord accepted his call.

"What is it?"

"She's in the room. Made it under her own power." He lowered his voice and stayed near the door, watching Bastila cautiously walk around the room and inspect the veritable treasure trove of luxuries she had previously been denied. "My lord, if I may…"

"Speak." His attention was obviously being divided.

"She is weak, Revan. She needs exercise. Good food. Sleep."

"Perhaps I wish her weak."

"It only riles her anger, I think. Doesn't do much but irritate her. You want her to be for you, you have to give her a reason to be."

Silence, save for the occasional rustle of breath. "As I would recruit any man's loyalty…" the murmured voice came through the speakers in his helmet. "You believe I should seek to win her loyalty, not command it."

"Isn't that the more trustworthy kind, my lord? Men won over fight harder than men enslaved."

More silence. Sante knew what Revan was thinking.

"Better late than never, my lord."

Revan snorted. "Moments like these, I think you're full of shit when you say you can't feel the Force at all, Sante."

"That is no different from my normal state of being, my lord," the soldier replied, smiling inside his helmet.

"Indeed. Make sure she is settled in. She may use the adjacent refresher. Inform her meals will be brought thrice daily – breakfast, lunch, dinner. That is enough for now. I cannot give her all her freedoms back at once."

"Of course not, sir. Then she might get to thinking she's a person with rights."

* * *

The Undercity was viler than he remembered. Trash littered the dirty streets. The housing complexes were packed tightly, whole families living in a space meant for one or two people at most. Segregation still existed here, was encouraged even, with violence and ignorant hatred. A sense of suffocation and desperation permeated the air with a stench that was unmistakable.

The layout of the city's underbelly hadn't changed, however, and he knew the way. White-silver boots clunked on the metal floors as the armored man weaved his way through the maze of corridors, buildings and throngs of people with dying hope in their eyes. The Sith soldier was admitted into the deeper recesses of the Undercity, blaster rifle holstered, purpose obviously that of a courier. Halting at a particular door, the soldier was eyed venomously by a woman standing guard.

"Sith aren't welcome inside," she spat, subtly flicking the safety off on her weapon. A less observant man might have missed the inherent threat, or the action altogether.

"This Sith is welcome inside," the armored man spoke, voice vibrating with persuasion.

She resisted briefly – a stubborn thing, she, he noted – but quickly caved. The woman's light eyes, bright against her chocolate skin, became absent, unfocused. "This Sith is welcome inside," she murmured, nodding.

"I have a message for Gadon Thek. You will take me to him."

"Yes, I will take you to him." Some semblance of free will returned to her, the woman's eyes focused sharply on his blaster rifle. "But that weapon won't be staying on your person. Hand it over."

He did without complaining, falling in step behind the female sentry. Though many inside gave suspicious, angry looks, none questioned his presence. None, that is, until Zaerdra.

"What the fuck is the meaning of this?" the pale-skinned Twi'lek exploded when she caught sight of the Sith soldier inside the base.

The Sith was smirking behind his helmet. "How far the Beks have fallen, that they won't even open fire on a single Sith soldier inside their own base if he has an escort…" He found himself looking down the barrel of a blaster less than a second later.

"I will melt your face off right here, Sith scum," Zaerdra growled, flicking the safety off her weapon. "You have some nerve working your way in here with whatever trickery you used." Purple irises snapped to the Bek who had let him. "Back to your post, and see you don't let more trash in this time," she snapped, focusing on the soldier again. "What the hell do you want, Sith? I know you're mocking us just by being here, and I don't _like_ that."

"Temper, temper," he hummed. "I will speak to Gadon. He wants to hear what I have to say."

"Like hell you will! There's not a chance in –"

A strong, commanding male voice cut her off. "Zaerdra! What is the meaning of this?"

"Gadon, this _Sith_," she spat the word with immeasurable contempt, "somehow managed to get inside the base. I'm not letting him an inch further," the Twi'lek growled.

White-grey ocular implants standing out starkly against the rich, dark tones of Gadon's skin, the Bek leader slowly studying the scene before him. "My sight isn't what it used to be, but if I'm not mistaken, I only see one Sith soldier there."

"Your point?" his bodyguard snapped.

"Zaerdra, put your damn blaster down. If the Sith wanted to destroy us, they'd come knocking on our door with duracrete."

His eyes saw the pure hatred that seethed from her purple ones, the conflict waged inside as she struggled to obey her leader's orders. With a grunt, she yanked the blaster out of his face and refused to holster it, finger still on the trigger, barrel still firmly in his direction.

"Now. What is it you want, Sith? You have some nerve, coming down here," Gadon said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I want a private audience," he replied calmly.

"Certainly," Thek replied, "as soon as every weapon on your person is checked with Zaerdra."

The soldier did not argue, handing over his blaster rifle, a blaster pistol, and submitting to a weapon scanner. When the Twi'lek bodyguard begrudgingly deemed him clean, the Bek leader led him to a private room. Everything about the room was sparse, just like the base. Thek took no pleasure in his leadership, had no comforts. The soldier viewed him with a certain modicum of respect for that.

"You wanted an audience, and you have it. Be brief. I do not make it a habit to negotiate with the emissaries of tyrannical regimes."

"Emissary? You misunderstand. I learned long ago not to send others to accomplish what I desire, Gadon. You do not wish to negotiate with emissaries? Then do not. Here is your chance to have your voice heard by the tyrant himself."

"What bullshit is this? A lowly Sith footsoldier, claiming to be the Dark Lord? Hah. I may be half-blind, but I'm not a fool," Gadon snapped, insulted.

"You may believe what you wish, Thek, but consider this: How did I gain entrance to your base so easily? Your guard outside is no fool either. That is why you have her there."

"So you're a Dark Jedi. But Darth Revan? What reason would he have to stop playing war with the Jedi and come to the infested underbelly of Taris to speak with a half-blind swoop gang leader?" the dark-skinned man demanded.

"Because of your actions during the Mandalorian Wars." The Sith soldier waved his gloved and armored hand dismissively. "Whether you believe I am who I say I am or not, let us engage in a fantasy. Briefly. _Pretend_ I am who I claim to be – what would you tell me then, were I to ask what it would take to gain your loyalty?"

Gadon's face contorted into a thinly veiled expression of disgust. "_Loyalty_? To the _Sith?_ You _are_ insane. I would never work with dogs like you," he spat.

"Tch, tch. Gadon," the Sith spoke calmly, almost understandingly. "I could easily go to Brejik. He would join me, and you know he would. All I would have to do is guarantee he could get rid of you, and promise him unchecked rule of the lower city gangs." He paused, weighed Gadon's silence and was pleased with what he learned from it. "I chose to come to you. Whatever you think of me, of my followers – that is irrelevant. What is relevant is what I can give you in exchange for your loyalty. What is it you need most, Gadon?"

The Bek leader clenched his jaw and remained stubbornly silent.

Behind his mask, the Sith smirked. "Lhosan industries hit you hard when they left, didn't they? Took all your jobs. Widened the chasm of inequality and inability to climb the socioeconomic ladder." A pause. "You did the right thing. You joined the resistance against the Mandalorians. And you were repaid with no chance for employment and a gang war that's slowly killing everyone you know and care about." Another pause. "What is this gang war even about, Gadon? What are you even fighting for?"

"Principle," Thek growled, body tense.

"I fight for principle as well."

"You? You're a grunt! You follow orders!"

"Ah, _pretend_, Gadon…" the Sith reminded him. The Bek leader grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. The soldier's demeanor shifted to one of utmost gravity. "Let's quit wasting time, Thek. Here is what I propose: I will bring Czerka Industries into Taris and I will return jobs and livelihoods to this Lower City of yours. In return, I require the promise that when the time comes, I can call on your Beks and they will fight alongside my men."

"You want me to see your offer of corrupt jobs as a favor? And you want me to repay this so called favor with the lives of my men and women?"

"The future of the Lower City is in your hands, Thek. Make your choice wisely."

A thick silence embraced the air, the two men watching each other carefully. The Sith soldier gave an inclination of his head and turned, making his exit. The leader of the Hidden Beks stared silently at the empty space before him for a very long time, unmoving, his mind working in overdrive. If he refused this offer – if it even was a legitimate one – his men were dead in a decade. They couldn't survive this shithole for much longer. If he accepted and chose to fight, they were dead, but at least they'd go out fighting something bigger than just a petty, pathetic gang war fueled by a bratty, insolent child. A poem Gadon had read once as a young man came back to him then, and he frowned.

Was this destined to be the last great battle he ever knew? This gang war that was so insignificant it barely annoyed the rich and affluent of Taris' upper city?

Rough hand sliding over the smooth skin of his bald head, the Bek leader let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes.

This was not how he wanted to die, down in this hole.


End file.
